Welcoming Mrs. Lesa Cline-Ransome

The most fulfilling day of the school year -this year- was welcoming children’s author and historian, Mrs. Lesa Cline- Ransome into our school on June 10th.

Last year the fourth graders read Finding Langston, a middle grade novel by Mrs. Lesa Cline- Ransome. They learned about the Harlem Renaissance and how it actually didn’t only exist in Harlem but in other Black cities like Chicago. They learned of writers like Langston Hughes and Gwendolyn Brooks. With Finding Langston alone, they spoke of many civil right issues, such as the housing issues that many Blacks faced then (a lot of them were able to relate to being homeless or not having a place to call your own). They also spoke of the right to a decent education and clean food. When speaking of rights, I exposed them to the 10 point system by the Black Panther Party and asked them if the rights that were asked for by the Party in the 70’s different from the rights we were asking for today. They also expanded their reading and writing skills. As their teacher I witnessed their level of comprehension increase significantly!

Below are mini paper colleges they did after studying the book’s cover. We spoke about different art mediums artist use. (By the way, I created my own reading packet which I will soon load on Teachers Pay Teachers).

Finding Langston‘s main plot is of a little boy who exists during the Great Migration. His family travels north for better opportunity- from a loving home in the south. The fourth graders learned that the Great Migration spanned well into their grandparent’s and parent’s generation. Their eyes grew wide when they realized how much this book was so closely related to the past yet to their present.

After we read the book, there was a celebration!

The fourth graders pose for a group picture during the Renaissance Party

The theme of the party was the Chicago Renaissance. Each student came in as a character from that era. I was the librarian who welcomed prominent writers in to the library built for Blacks. All day my students called me Ms. Vivian (after Vivian Harsh).

The following are the realistic characters my students dressed up as. From the left: Mrs. George Cleveland Hall (Dr. George Cleveland Hall’s wife), Lorraine Hansberry, Ms. Augusta Savage, Ms. Elizabeth Catlett (this character was so popular that this year they all mention an interested in visiting the Elizabeth Catlett show at the Brooklyn Museum…one of them went with me on a random Saturday outside of school), Ms. Katherine Mary Dunham (this character was the one the girls fought over- because who doesn’t want to be a dancer?!), Ms. Margaret Walker, Me (as Ms. Vivian Harsh) , Ms. Gwendolyn Brooks, the little boy in the hat was Mr. Langston Hughes, and the little boy at the far end was Mr. Useni E. Perkins (poet of Hey Black Child). The day of the party they came in full character… so full that I had to remind them that I was Vivian Harsh- with an emphasis on harsh. In high spirits, they traveled to classes and asked students and teachers to guess who they were after putting on short skits. My principal confessed that she didn’t know all of them. Her face lit up when the little girl said yes, you’re correct, I am Katherine Mary Dunham.

At the Brooklyn Museum with Mariah viewing Catlett’s work

The following year when I had them for fifth grade, I started the year with the book’s sequel, Leaving Lymon. With this book, they now spoke about family relationships, detention centers, food lines, and factories in America. They completed a food and race relations project for their work to be shown in a gallery in New York (will share the show soon). They learned about Blacks living in Milwaukee who faced harsh working conditions.

In Leaving Lymon, the reader meets Langston’s bully, Lymon, and finds out why he is a bully. This book teaches compassion for both the victim and the bully. Fifth grade used the lessons during the school year. They had disagreements and once there was even a fight but the core lessons of humanity and self respect was taught and even in very tough times apologies were made and friendships rekindled.

Right here, I want to mention the beauty of these two novels and how apropos it was for them to read it at the appointed time. During the school year, we as a community experienced a death and it was so unexpected. However, my class was already talking about social- emotional skills and self respect. I want to say it was because of the readings they were greatly comforted.

In February of 2024, some of my students joined the program (that I run outside of school) Soap Recipe, on a Black History Celebration trip to Philadelphia, PA. There, they met Mrs. Lesa Cline- Ransome at the African American Children’s book fair. And, oh, what a meeting! For a teacher whose joy it is to find ways for children to connect the past to the present and realize how valuable their history is- I felt loved when my students found Mrs. Lesa Cline- Ransome (on their own) in a gigantic overcrowded gymnasium. They recited Langston Hughes’ One Way Ticket to her between smiles and shrieks. Everyone there witnessed how learning, reading, and writing have the power to transform a human. Everyone was touched at how my students laureled Mrs. Cline-Ransome and in turn honored their educated selves.

One day I was at my computer reading my emails and saw that Mrs. Cline- Ransome was going to attend a book event with the Center for Black Literature in Brooklyn. I told my now fifth graders I was going to be absent because I was going to an event to meet Mrs. Cline-Ransome. I then asked them what they thought about inviting her to the school.

Will she really come?

I don’t know. But is it that hard to write a letter and ask?

With this question, they stopped to do what they did best- argue- about writing the author.

If she doesn’t come it will be a waste of time.

But if she does come, it won’t.

Ms. Hurley, is she your friend?

Of course She’s Ms. Hurley’s friend! She’s going to meet her!

I did what I did best- I quietly waited until they were done arguing, then told them to start writing. I was surprised by the content of their letters. They didn’t even need two days to write her. They put forth their best penmanship and diction. I didn’t have to tell them to use their raggedy dictionaries that they vowed to keep neat in September but by May were a mess. Each writer got up and got their dictionaries.

When I arrived in Brooklyn, I gave her the letters at the end of her workshop and she gave me 12 signed bookmarks for my students.

The author never forgot that moment in Philly, and said so when she responded to their new request to come and visit their school. She returned their sheer passion and joy with an excited yes! Even though she was in Europe when she decided, yes, she’ll come- she emailed me her interest in meeting my students.

Letter from Brooklyn

Before she came, the students went into preparation mode with tenacious energy. Needless to say, it was challenging. It was nearing the end of the school year and there were so many trips, events, and parties happening. In the beginning of the preparation, they argued and fought over who would do what until some of them wished they never wrote her. That wish turned into another argument (that I got involved with). But as time got close, the dedicated fifth graders (with some help from the nearby fourth graders) worked on mini skits, Bottle projects, and a huge classroom banner while their schoolmates read books by the author, wrote papers and drew images to honor her arrival.

When she came, my students were walking to the sanctuary. I double checked my email and saw that she was outside. I told the students and they rushed to the front of the building! All twelve of them were surprised that she actually came.

There are very few moments when I can say they stopped talking this year, and this was one of the them. When they saw her step out of the car they all got quiet.

That’s really her! I heard one student whisper.

They did not even run to open the door! They stood on stairs, gawking. Some were pointing while others stood with their hands over their mouths.

I told two students to go down and let her in- to which when they did like robots. Then, they continued to stand there and gape. She broke the silence by saying- Ahhh, …can I take a picture of all of you?! I, of course couldn’t stop smiling.

That morning, I ordered over one hundred dollars worth of KFC for the class as a surprise. After the two hour talk and book signing, they returned to a classroom that smelled of KFC. They ate with the author and put on their shows, read their poetry, shared their art and brought up their favorite topic – Ms. Hurley doesn’t know how to spell Tick- Tock correctly.

To add to all the excitement of the day, Mrs. Lesa Cline-Ransome’s husband, James Ransome, came and spent some time with us at the very end! What can get better than that?!

By her departure, they were back to themselves, doing what 11 and 12 year olds do best- show off (this is after arguing of course).

Before I end this post, I want to mention one question I heard one of my students asked her during her lecture. She wanted to know why Mrs. Cline-Ransome includes the father (as a character) in all her books. My student struggled to ask the question because she asked the question from a very vulnerable place. While reading the books and talking about relationships with my students, I didn’t realize that because most of them were in house-holds without their fathers, reading her books gave them a sort of insight into a world in which the father existed everyday- and this world, they learned, was a very possible world.

Thank You, Mrs. Lesa Cline-Ransome

I wish You More

After my school experienced an unexpected tragedy, I made it my goal to spend more time talking to my students about things outside of the busy curriculum. Everyday I would stop and say, “it’s time to talk” and they would know. It’s time for a real life conversation.

Most days the conversation is real quick, like, how was your day?

Other times, the conversation would last the entire class period.

One of my favorite books I always use in moments like these is I Wish you More by Amy Krouse Rosenthal.

After reading the book, the students created their own images and what they wished more for their classmates. Here are some of their images:

It is Well with my Soul

(This image is from a NYT article dated June 2022 and is drawn by Sammy Harkham)

I am currently reading, Four Hundred Souls: A Community History of African America, 1619- 2019 edited by Ibram X. Kendi and Keisha N. Blain. While reading part seven of the collection, I came across, Reconstruction, by Michael Harriot. The essay reminded me of Sunday morning service and thinking of Sunday’s service made me write the following post.

The except that inspired me reads:

The hero of this drama is Black People. All Black People. The free Blacks; the uncloaked maroons; the Black elite; the preachers and reverends; the doormen and doctors; the sharecroppers and soldiers- they are all protagonists in our epic adventure.

Spoiler alert: the hero of this story does not die.

Ever.

This hero is long-suffering but unkillable. Bloody and unbowed. In this story- and in all the subsequent sequels, now and forever- this hero almost never wins. But we still get to be the heroes of all true American stories simply because we are indestructible. Try as they might, we will never be extinguished.

Ever.

Harriot continues his essay describing the fight for life, and political freedom during this tumultuous time in America. He tell us of the many murders that took place, and about the three major attempts to put an end to the Klansmen.

Somewhere inside of my psyche, Harriot’s historical account and my experience on Sunday made a connection.

Before I tell you about Sunday, I must tell you about Bis (changed his name for confidentality). We met as children. He is the 15th child of his family and I consider him a little brother.

Outside of being handsome, he’s an extremely kind person and very brotherly. He’ll open the door for sisters, carry heavy boxes, and greet everyone with a charming smile. What I enjoy most about his character, is that he is one of those brothers who can sing and isn’t afraid to do so. And chile, he can saaang. It is not a surprising fact because; mostly everyone in his family can sing. (Not even kidding- one of my close friends who came to church was mesmerized by his mother’s voice).

On Sunday, however, when Bis begin singing; his voice was that of an old man who smoked for many years. I turned around to see who was singing and was shocked that it was him. He must be in pain, I thought. I looked into his eyes. His young, carefree spirit seemed to be holding on to something greater than himself.

I cried and cried and I can cry some more if I think about it all.

He started singing Your Grace and Mercy by Frank Williams. I heard Bis’ mother singing along. She was lining out each word with a motherly wail; which made me cry even more. His beautiful sisters surrounded him, singing and crying too.

The song ended and he shared his testimony with the congregation. He arrived at his doorstep and while entering his building, was shot in the neck. God kept him alert and aware of everything in the moment.

He knew he was shot.

He knew he should seek help.

He ran for his life in the direction of the hospital. On the way, he spotted an ambulance truck. He banged frantically on the door and on the side of the truck. The two sleeping EMS workers took one look at him, and didn’t inquire or offer to help.

He tried talking with his hands. Making symbols.

Heart!?!!

Shot!!!!

Gun!!!!

But, nothing would do. They wouldn’t open their doors.

He gave up on them and ran the rest of the way to the hospital- Ten NYC blocks.

They rushed him into the emergency room. They told him the bullet traveled to to his shoulder, and eventually to his back. But- he had very little bleeding. Already his body was growing around the bullet and fighting off the new intruder.

“You’re a lucky man”, the doctor said to him.

“The bullet”, he was told, was “a stray cop bullet.”

A cop bullet? I looked around at others. Most people had their heads bowed. There wasn’t much noise. No amens or hallelujahs. Nothing. The Holy Ghost Fiery church was listening… with sorrow.

I thought, how many innocent people a year are killed by cops? Is he really a lucky man? Will the cops be moved into a new community to practice getting their target? Did the target look like him? Will they find the gun, trace the fingerprints, and hold the person who pulled the trigger responsible? Or is he lucky to have the innocent bystander story of I was just walking into my building when I got shot?

Also, is any money being made on account of his luckiness in getting shot? Is he getting a huge sum that will pay for any damage? I know the doctor is getting paid, the the ambulance drivers are getting paid and the cops are also getting paid; but what about his mother and her now new job of having to care for this young man and his days of missing work?

Is this all luck? Is luck to be Black and not die from a stray bullet? Blacks die from stray bullets and have been dying from their stray bullets since the beginning of the war they started in 1869.

After struggling for his life, Bis was released home. He is still recovering and rejoicing for another chance at this thing called life.

Everyone was impacted by his testimony and the mood of the sanctuary was now changed. The ex-cop who sat behind me held her head down. Not just down, but her entire torso was bent over and grunts could be heard as Bis spoke.

Young sisters thought of the safety of their brothers and brothers thought of the safety of their sisters because who’s exempt from a stray? No one was ever exempted from the noose. No one is exempt from a stray.

Mothers. Mothers. Black Women. Their pain was uncovered as Bis spoke and spoke.

What a powerful testimony, one mother said as she resumed her seat by her husband. She stood frozen by the entrance. Listening.

Bis spoke of his worry of being able to use his limb, his nervous system, his respiratory system…systems. Will his body ever be back to normal?

I thought of another brother who was also shot. I was sympathetic to his personal tragedy. He said he had two bullets in him which sounds frightening. The word lucky never came to my head. However, feelings of anger came to me.

While Bis was sharing his worries with the church, I remembered the agility of the other brother and was comforted to know that perhaps Bis will be okay in the long run.

The service continued and the Minister called on Sister Williams. She started singing the 1871 hymn by businessman Horatio Spafford. Spafford needed comfort in his situation of mourning the death of not only his son who had passed due to the Great Chicago Fire but also the death of his four daughters who had died the following day while trying to escape the fire engulfing their community. Once again, young people trying to escape fire. It was as if God himself was using the same Spirit to calm the fears of the congregation.

When peace like a river attendeth my way/ When sorrows like sea-billows roll

Whatever my lot,/ Thou has taught me to say,

It is well, it is well with my soul.

Her soprano reached up and called, and the church responded

It is well, It is well, with my soul.

In no account do I see luck or chance but a lot of fiery trails. A lot of running and a lot of people determine to live in-spite and despite of.

The essay by Harriot ends by telling us that even through it all, the most magnificent part is Black people in America still exist. Every imaginable monstrosity that evil can conjure has been inflicted on this population, yet they have not be extinguished. The hero remains.

Still.

And that is the most wondrous part of all.

Sunday I cried and cried and I can cry some more if I think about Sunday Morning service while reading Reconstruction by Michael Harriot.

Chopped Cheese goes a Long Way

One night during tax season, I had a victorious night serving others. For me, it wasn’t strange. It was humane.

When I got home, I told my sister about my night.

A couple of days later, I told my mentor.

I testified about it in church.

Finally my experience was published in the New York Times:

Dear Diary:

I was on my way to a Jackson Hewitt tax office in the Bronx on a Monday night. I stopped at a Bengali place for dinner. I left with two samosas, plus dinner and lunch for the next day. It was 9 p.m. when I got to the subway station. I looked around and noticed a boy on the platform. He was playing a video game. I opened the container with the samosas, but before I could dip one in sauce, the boy interrupted me.

Excuse me, Miss, he said. Do you have a dollar for water? I’m thirsty.

I put my food away.

Let’s go, I said.

We went downstairs.

Are you hungry? I asked him.

Yes, he said.

We walked to a Jamaican restaurant on the corner known for its jerk chicken, bread fruit and steamed fish.

Please, Miss, the boy asked, can we go to a deli?

We found one nearby. He ordered a chopped cheese and an Arizona iced tea. I paid, and we ran back up to the station. The train pulled in immediately. We got on, and the boy took out the sandwich. I listened as he talked about wanting to be a doctor and ate his chopped cheese.

Stay focused, I began to say. Before I could say more, he hugged me and said good night.

I got off at the next stop and walked into Jackson Hewitt.

You are my last customer, the tax preparer said.

Oh, great, I said. I stopped by a Bengali restaurant to kill time and… 

Oh really, he said. What did you get?

When my taxes were done, I left without my curry. I saved my dinner to have for lunch the next day.

— Lystria Hurley

I received many emails from readers who read my story.

One reader wrote:

Hello,

If today’s story is yours, it was beautiful.  What a sweet and selfless thing to do!  You are such a good and kind person.  I’m sure you are a phenomenal teacher.  The world needs more people like you.

I searched on the name used in the Metropolitan Diary and found your blog.  Again, I was overwhelmed by the beauty of your photography and your subject matter.  So brilliant!

Thank you for being you!  

Stephanie

Another Reader Wrote:

Dear Ms. Hurley, 
     I read your piece in the Metropolitan Diary this morning and was so warmed by your thoughtful story and brilliant description of your NYC moment. 
     Thank you so much for sharing with the world.   

Sincerely and gratefully, Jolie 
New London, New Hampshire 

I heard my pastor once say, when God gives you joy, you take it. So I took those notes and printed them out. Pasting them in my journal.

Today I received a package in the mail. Ms. Jolie of New London, New Hampshire, inquired about my book list for my class and brought three books from my wish list. She sent the books with a note that reads:

Hi!

Dear Ms. Hurley,

Here are the books. I hope you and your students enjoy them.

Best Wishes,

Jolie

What I didn’t know was that Jolie worked at a bookstore and what Jolie didn’t know was I am running a free art and race relations summer camp using my own dollars from the school year for funding. I must say that when you cheerfully give, cheer come back to you.

Thank you Ms. Stephine for your kind words and thank you sincerely, Ms. Jolie

Ashley Bryan

Ashely Bryan, an art activist for children, has passed away. He was 98 years old.

Ashley Bryan believed in the arts- music, painting, sketching, collaging, story telling- you name it, he believed in it. Furthermore, he was able to put himself into children shoes and write for them.

He knew his craft and delivered it well.

With so many people writing children book’s these days, it looks quite easy to write and illustrate a book for a child; however, when you view Ashley Bryan’s ‘Walk together Children’ or ‘Puppets Making Something from Everything’ or ‘Beautiful Blackbird’; you know children book making is more about craft than about circumstance, more about inspiration than about influence and more about realization than about repetition.

Ashley Bryan will continue to live on in classrooms and communities because of his deep appreciation of who he was and from whence he came.

The Chocolate Touch Book Report

Andre used a Bingo tin can to complete his Chocolate Touch book report

My principal made it clear that this year we couldn’t have parties and put a limit on how many sweets children could eat. She stressed healty eating at all times. This was all good, however; after reading The Chocolate Touch by Patrick Skene Catling, it was time for a book celebration and of course all anyone could think about was chocolate. I searched the internet for book reports that were about candy and still within the guidelines.

I came across a Mint Tin Can book report on teacherthrive.com.

Then, I put together the following letter for my little third graders.

Dear Radiant Third Graders, 

We have finished reading The Chocolate Touch by Patrick Skene Catling!! Therefore….it’s time for a book report. This book report has two parts and of course, it includes something dealing with candy!! 

Part I: You’ll need one common mint tin (about 3.5 by 2.25 inches). ( eat/ share all the mints inside and save the tin for your report) Using the background template (included),  draw a background from an important scene in the book and glue it into the interior of the lid.The next step is adding your foreground, which will “pop out” from the background. Use cardstock for this part; it holds up better and creates a cleaner pop-up effect. 

To give the foreground the pop-out effect,  glue pieces of crafting foam onto the back of it.  

Next, tape your own label using white  paper on the cover of the tin. This part should be the title of your book report.   

Part II: Attached you will find a picture sample for the book report. You will submit a MINT TIN BOOKREPORT.  Color, glue, paste and write neatly. Your mint tin will be graded on presentation. 

Be sure to include the following on each of the SIX sheets: 

  1. Story structure: Beginning , Middle,  Ending
  2. Story Elements:  Setting,  Problem,  Solution
  3. Your favorite part of the Story
  4. Draw your favorite character 
  5. Write your favorite quote from the story
  6. Define one word new vocabulary word from the story

Your responses should be written in your best handwriting.

Have fun! 

Anticipating Greatness,

Ms. Hurley

For images and how the project should look visit:

The following pictures are some of their projects.

Celebrating Hurston

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In September of last year, I had the wonderful opportunity to meet editor and scholar, Deborah Plant, whose work and dedication to the writings of Zora Neal Hurston is an example of how we can commit ourselves to writing and use it as a tool to uplift our community.

The first time I read Hurston’s work, I was in college. I was going through different works by American writers and Hurston was on my list.  Her name did not grace any of my professors’ syllabi so while I would have liked reading her work with others, I read it alone.

Attending the book events in Brooklyn finally enabled me to listen to an open conversation about an author whose work I’ve enjoyed.

As I sat listening, I begin to list reasons why I enjoyed this Renaissance writer:

  • She was in search of herself and looked for self, in others.
  • She saw the importance of stories within the community
  • She appreciated the little that people had, and saw a lot in that…

Plant began by a moment of silence. Welcoming the ancestors’ energy into the room, which surprised me. I guess the more I attend events such as this one, I would not be surprised by libations.

She then began to read an excerpt from Barracoon: The Story of the Last “Black Cargo” by Zora Neale Hurston. Listening to Plant reading Hurston’s writing so effortlessly would make someone think, it is an easy reading. But I found out how hard it was after purchasing the book and going to another event  where acclaimed authors read her work and stumbled over her writing.

I sat absolutely still while listening. I had a fear that a minor shuffle would cause me to miss one word which would mean missing a ton of information. She began…

It was summer when I went to talk with Cudjo so his door was standing wide open…

…Captin Tim you brought us from our county where we had land, you made us slave now they make us free but we ain’t got no country and we ain’t got no land, why don’t you give us piece of this land so we can build ourselves a house?…

…we call our village African town…we want to go back in African soil and we see we can’t go....my folks sell me and your folks, American folks buy me. We here and we gotta stay…

After the reading, the auditorium was very still. No one moved a bone. Then, Dr. Brenda M. Greene, the director of Black literature and chair of the English Department at Medgar Evers College, started the discussion with the following  proverb.

A person doesn’t die until the living stop telling their stories. 

I learned that the thoughts I had from time to time about being black in America were thoughts that were okay to have and okay to speak about. More importantly, I should engage in conversation about these types thoughts more often.

You see, asking myself where I belong or wondering about my family tree are thoughts we all have. None of them are disconnected from the thoughts of our ancestors. The only difference is our ancestors had to fight an even greater fight. They were up against a society that told them they were cargo and not human. This is the society in which Hurston fought against and wrote for.  As Plant said,

… When it [came] to the humanity of a people, [telling our stories were]  so important… when she…[ became] an anthropologist; African Americans, people of Color, were not considered fully human! If human at all! She [was] an anthropologist at the beginning of the field of anthropology…

She [was] at the beginning of things. During that time…the so-called social scientist and anthropologist ….had this attitude about people of color, certainly black people that not only were we a vanishing species… but when it comes to the human pyramid [we] were at the bottom and not quite human…the history of our experiences on the continent of Africa…tells you what exactly people thought about us. 

…all of the doctrines that supported that…this is what they were teaching…this was in the newspapers. We were monkeys…we were considered not what we were…everything that Hurston did was a contradiction those lies. Everything that she did was a contradiction  to something called white supremacy…

Everything she did.

Rather than just outright [deny] the lies of white supremacy, what she did was present a positive response…let me show you what we are, let me show you our humanity, let me show you our language…let me show you our community…let me show you not only our stories about what has happened to us but also those tales of laughter because yes…it is how we actually get through these kinds of things.

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As the discussion continued, what it meant to be considered an activist, a renaissance writer and how to allow ourselves to weep when feeling the longing for something called home dominated the discussion.

Plant explained it this way:

As human beings, two of the most important questions we ask ourselves… [are] who am I? and where do I belong? …When you’ve been deracinated…from everything that you know…not just your mother, [but] your mother tongue and your motherland; and you can never ever have that again, [you ask yourself] who am I after that? [and] where can I ever belong, after that?…[Barracoon] allow us to see our own wound. Just like [the main character] hasn’t healed from it, we haven’t either. We are still asking ourselves the same questions. In America, where do I belong, if not in my own apartment?

So, this is why it touches us so deeply because we are still asking the same questions…the fact that [Hurston] allowed [the main character] this space [to weep] speaks to her own humanity … and tells us we need to do the same for ourselves. When do we give ourselves time to weep? To grieve? To mourn? When do we even acknowledge, I really don’t feel good?

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It was at the point that I began to cry. I had never heard someone put into words this personal feeling that I felt but never spoke about. I looked around the room and could see black older men and women shaking their heads.

As the conversation continued, I had a flashback about the time I was in fifth grade and found out that I wasn’t American even though I had been taught the Pledge of Allegiance and the Star Spangle Banner in Kindergarten.

You not American! My white science teacher told me.

I looked at him with a quizzical face and stood my ground, Yes, I am. I was born here. Right in the Bronx!

I was surprised when my best friend, Tina, who was from the Dominican Republic and the the boy I had the biggest crush on, Edwin, laughed with the rest of the class.

My teacher laughed as well. Then pointed to the next person who said he was from Jamaica. I didn’t know why I couldn’t call myself simply American if I was born in America but someone who was born in Jamaica was allowed to say Jamaican. I felt hurt and pain and so confused. I forced myself not to cry because it was vital to pay attention so I could find out who I was. But Mr. Will never got back to me.

This was part of the beginning of my search. And, the flashback ended with the deaths in my family. Once again, the questions unanswered.

Hurston was committed to capturing the plight of the impoverished and rural African Americans and in essence help to keep alive what a lot of us ran away from. We know of the Harlem Renaissance stories that spoke about our people leaving the south during the great migration but she went back to the south to preserve what those who didn’t leave, had. In revisiting, preserving and reminding us that no matter how far we go or have come we still must allow ourselves space to weep.